


Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

by notverypunkofme



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Harry, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Feelings, Genderswap, Het, Porn with Feelings, Sexswap, bratty Harry and hopeless Niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notverypunkofme/pseuds/notverypunkofme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is honestly to god scared to look at Harry, just like the first time, scared that if he catches her gazing at him, he might see a bit of what he’s felt for her for ages, and for some reason that is the most frightening thought. Because he doesn’t know how he could deal with Harry’s honest interest in him, and he would just fuck up everything anyway, or probably Harry would too, sooner or later.</p><p>(Harry decides to wear Niall´s underwear)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to B and Christina for their help.  
> All comments and kudos very much appreciated, come say hi to my tumblr @notverypunkofme :)

Niall catches a glimpse of Harry’s underwear when they are going over the tour outfits with Caroline. He has to double check, peeking again, because he is not a creep checking Harry’s bottom out- not that she doesn’t walk around only in her underwear most of the time anyway- and yep, those are his white Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs.

Of course Harry catches him, grinning widely at him, mouthing: “A fresh pair,” and giving him a thumb up. Niall nods, not sure what is the correct reaction here. When Harry came to bother him that morning in an unholy hour, he really didn’t expect her to leave with his underwear even when she had used his en suite for the shower, and his toothbrush and probably his hairbrush too. Niall will check for long brown hair tangled in it later.

—

He forgets about the whole thing for a couple of days, because they are pretty exhausted with shows every night, but then Harry knocks on his hotel door one evening, lets herself in, not waiting for a permission. She sits on the large double bed from where Niall´s watching the telly. It’s pretty late, after midnight already, but Niall knows how restless Harry is when she can’t sleep. He’s the only one who can put up (and is willing to!) with her and the whimsical moods she gets in.

“Hi, Haz,” he says turning his head to face her.

“Hello,” she answers with a dimply smile. She looks different like this- in the dim light, off stage; still and relaxed. Not many people get to know Harry Styles from up close- without make-up covering the few blemishes, her long wavy hair free of all product, looking really soft now, making Niall want to stroke it; wearing an old cotton t-shirt stretched out around her neck, showing off her collarbones and the birds’ wings. There’s no bra under the top, of course not. _‘Why would I want to torture myself and sleep in that thing, Niall?’_

His eyes politely skips Harry’s chest area and the pair of his white boxers comes to view. He stares longer than he should.

“Ohh,” Harry looks down too, probably noticing Niall staring there too, “I washed them but they are really comfy,” she explains, rubbing the material on the very top of her long, strong thigh between her fingers.

“Yeah,” Niall swallows. He feels hot all over suddenly, as he wiggles on the top of the duvet a bit. He should be taking advantage of his position as a 1/5 of the biggest band in the world, banging girls or whatever. Not- not pining after Harry.

“It feels really nice against my pussy, you know,” Harry says slowly, dreamily, and she rubs her hand over there.

“Jesus, Harry, don’t over share, yea?”

“Whaaat, I’m just saying.”

“Okay, okay,” Niall agrees quickly, frantically trying to come up with an idea what to do to cover his erection subtly, without looking frantic. He gets up from the bed, walks over to get a bottle of water from the mini fridge, counting how long has it been since he had sex.

The thing is, for people like them it’s really hard to find a reliable person to sleep with, without the world knowing every detail the next morning. The whole process has always seemed too stressful to Niall to actually pull various girls on regular basis or when the need becomes too strong.

Harry stands up too.

“Are you upset?” she asks quietly, probably pouting, draping herself all over Niall’s back so her tits are pressed against his spine.

“No, I’m mot upset, I’m tired.” This is the easy way out of it, isn’t it?

“I can give you a massage? Ni?” And Harry’s voice is almost cheerful now, and she speaks into the side of his neck now, standing on her tiptoes to reach. She’s a tall girl, only an inch or so shorter than Niall.

“No!” Niall gets out too quickly in a panic.

“But you always liked my massages. Or didn’t you?”

Harry’s arms are wrapped  around his shoulders from behind, and she smells lovely. Just perfect, girly, like Harry. Niall sometimes dreams about the smell. Sometimes he dreams about Harry too, about the things he wants to do to her, with her. And he shouldn’t.

Harry’s obviously getting impatient, which is how she gets after being ignored for too long or not having her way and not understanding why, because she’s rubbing herself all over Niall now, clingy.

“I like touching you. I like touching you, Ni, don’t you like it? Your skin is so warm.”

If you would ask Niall about it later, he wouldn’t be able to explain how did they end up on the bed. Niall on his belly with Harry sitting on his lover back. Probably the famous, irresistible charm of Harry Styles.

“I should go get some candles from my room,” Harry says, fidgeting, pressing Niall’s dick against the mattress.

“’S alright, Haz,” he huffs out, head pillowed on his hands.

“Or like, one of the aromatic oils.”

“It’s fine, I promise. I’m fine.” Niall’ s not sure if he wants Harry to get over with it or rather just to start the slow torture finally.

She rucks up Niall’s t-shirt and digs her glorious, long fingers in the muscles. It´s a torture. She is not an especially good masseur with the jerky movements and fleeting from one side to the other unsystematically, but the touches are still great, and Niall can feel her knees a pressed to his sides, so warm; she clucks her tongue a few times when she clearly tries to figure out the best move, Niall can picture her with the tip of her tongue peeking out in concentration.

He doesn’t make much noise, even though it’s probably something Harry’s been waiting for, because she always needs a positive feedback, a confirmation.

Every time Harry presses hard enough, fingernails leaving imprints on the skin, Niall desperately tries not to groan and rub his hardening dick against the bed. He must be very transparent though, because soon Harry starts scratching around his shoulder-blades and spine on purpose, humming to herself contently, as if she’s figured out a tricky puzzle.

Niall starts dozing off under the attention of Harry’s hands- even though he knows he should make Harry leave his room instead, and then jerk off in peace, when he registers quiet moans that are not coming out of 'his’ mouth. He goes all rigid at first, then feels the tiny movements of Harry’s pelvis, the heat of her cunt where she’s pressed so tight against him. She’s fucking getting off on the small of his back, Jesus. Just when he opens his mouth to say something, anything, Harry says his name quietly, voice all shivery.

“Yea?” Niall lifts up his head, neck straining.

“Uhm- I’m all wet,” and she’s not touching him anymore, only sitting on his back, both of them very still. “Niall.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Niall murmurs, flipping them over with a surprising energy, so Harry’s underneath him, arms along her torso, Niall holding on her biceps firmly. She looks a bit out of it, exactly how Niall’s feeling at the moment, mouth half open and cheeks flushed pink. He wants to kiss her. Always wants to kiss her. Too bad half the world or more wants to kiss her too.

Instead he sneaks his hand down her body to touch her between her legs, to find for himself just how aroused she is.

He keeps his eyes down, tracking the movement of his hand, and he remembers that Harry’s wearing his underwear the minute he touches the damp fabric.

“Shit.”

“I told you,” Harry says, slightly out of the breath, like it would explain everything. And then: “Touch me? Please?”

So Niall strokes her through the pants- _his_ pants- with a slightly trembling hand, feeling the folds of her pussy and then pressing down against her clit, rubbing the fabric against it.

Harry moans, and Niall still won’t look at her. He’s watching his hand moving, suddenly thinking of how many other people got to do this with Harry, to Harry; and if any of them bloody loved her the same way Niall does.

He stops, closing his eyes, putting a hand over his face.

“Fuck.”

“Ni-” Harry makes an attempt to sit up, but Niall scoots down the bed, past the laurels imprinted above Harry’s hips peeking from under her t-shirt, and he puts his mouth where his hand had been.

He keeps licking Harry until his tongue is all sore and he can taste only her. That’s when he dares to look up. It’s pretty fucking late to feel guilty now anyway.

Her eyes are really bright and dazed, like when she’s high on something, one hand playing with her nipple and the other one tangled in the waves of her hair. She bites her plump lip as she catches his gaze.

“Would you mind fucking me now, please?”

Niall licks his lips mindlessly, tasting Harry’s juices there.

“There are condoms in the bathroom cabinet, right?”

Niall is screwed.

When he comes back with the little box of condoms, Harry’s on the bed wearing only the white boxer briefs, the cross pendant and a collection of tattoos. She’s always been Niall’s biggest temptation, hardest to resist. Seems like not for forever.

It takes him a moment to get on the bed, because he can’t quite process the situation. He never even dared to dream about stuff like this. This shall forever and ever be his number one memory to wank off too.

“Come here,” Harry beckons him, lifting up on her elbows.

And Niall goes, of course he does, opening one of the condoms in the process. He feels a bit feverish.

“Would you wear the boxers tomorrow?” she whispers in his ear. “I mean. Just like this? Without washing them first?”

“Harry,” Niall swallows awkwardly, getting his tracksuit bottoms off and the condom on, trying not to thing about the current situation too much.

“I think you would, Niall. You would.”

And Niall ignores how Harry’s trying to make him look her in the eye; and pulls his briefs, which are wet with Harry, down her long long legs and off. He pushes his dick in her before he panics for real.

It’s all so hot and so ridiculous that Niall is not sure he can bear it. Because he’s still in his t-shirt and Harry is gloriously naked, looking like a sin. He wants to touch her, of course he does, but he won’t. Not if he can help it. He wants to keep some sort of dignity after this is over. Doesn’t need to think about Harry more than he already has been.

Harry moans prettily, legs around Niall’s waist as he’s sliding in and out of her in long and steady thrusts. When he starts speeding up eventually, because hey, he’s here to get off too, you know, Harry arches her back, whines:

“Slowly, just- go slowly,” and when Niall obeys, teeth gritting together with the effort of holding back, she gets out a breathy “Yeah, please.”

She keeps commenting on everything, describing seemingly every feeling, every sensation, and her voice gets deep and a bit raspy, sending chills down Niall’s spine.

“You’ve got such a lovely cock, Nialler, who would’ve thought.” and “This is so good, it’s like I’m tingling everywhere” and “Why didn’t we do this before?” And Niall knows why, but he keeps his mouth shut and his hands on top of her thighs.

Then Harry comes, after long minutes of languid stretching and writhing on Niall’s dick, she lets out a shitload of crap that she’s probably not aware of saying, and mouths “thanks, babe” at Niall when finally lying back sated and quiet.

Niall is overwhelmed by just having watched Harry come, which was the most erotic sigh he’s ever experienced, already tucked in a safe corner of his mind for future reference. He finishes himself off with his hand, barely aware of Harry lightly scratching his thighs and watching him closely. He only allows himself a little whimper, jizzing in the condom that’s still on him, avoiding unnecessary mess. Very clever. Also he didn’t kiss Harry once during the- the sex. Over and over, he’s bloody proud of himself.

He doesn´t hear Harry calling after him when he goes to the bathroom and pretends to pee. Flushing the toilet, he hopes that she´ll be gone by the time he gets out.

When your heart´s on fire, smoke gets in your eyes.

-

The next few days, Niall avoids her. He is not very good at faking anything, so his actions must be painfully obvious to the other boys, and Harry too. However no one says anything when he joins Liam in the gym or Zayn and Louis for a night in the club.  
  
Harry pouts a lot when they are on the stage, her plump bottom lip jutted out constantly; betrayed eyes glued to Niall when she thinks he’s not looking. Still, she is on her best pop star behavior, running from one side of the stage to the other, silly moves and funny dances intact.  
It’s all a bit too staged though. Niall refuses to acknowledge it might be because of him.

—

They are somewhere on the East Coast, in another hotel that looks just like the previous one. Niall lies through his teeth, refusing to join the others for a night out, telling them he was tired and a bit sick, mumbling “Might be a food poisoning, who knows,” dodging Harry on the way out of the room. He is a fucking coward and he knows it. He actually does feel a whole lot sick; sick of himself and the things on his mind that won’t go away. Like Harry’s full boobs, her soft, inked skin, and a patch of dark hair underneath her underwear, god.

He downs two Stellas from the mini fridge and a pack of some kind of greasy American crisps, jerks off twice to the images from _that_ night with Har- _her_ , which he counts as a personal record, and falls asleep on the white leather sofa.

—

Next time he wakes up it’s dark and his left arm is asleep. He shakes it, trying to get rid of the awful pin and needles sensation, reaching for his phone with his other hand.

There´s eight missed calls from Harry, two from Liam and a pile of whatsapp messages. He ignores all of it, deciding that feeling like the biggest arsehole is a punishment big enough. At least for now.

It’s just- he can’t let Harry too close again. He´d made that mistake a few years back, before they even had sex, and it had nearly killed him. Let’s say that some people are tremendously bad at dealing with feelings. Niall might be one of them, and he’s sort of aware of it. Doesn’t mean he has to do something about it. Apart from hating himself, that is.

He washes his face and brushes his teeth, ready to go back to sleep. It’s past midnight and he feels drained. It’s all the feelings and thinking and shit. Shit, he really couldn´t bother dealing with this on a daily basis.

The first knock on the door is so quiet he nearly misses it, one knee already on the bed. He hesitates, ears straining to hear the sound again. Honestly, he wishes he just imagined it; because he’s already pretty sure he knows who the person on the other side of the door is.

The knock comes again, followed by a soft thump.

Heart beat speeding up, Niall wants to ignore the knocking. He doesn’t, though, instead he goes to open it uncertainly, cracking it halfway.

And it is Harry, of course it is. Niall can’t see her, but he knows before she even starts talking.  
  
“Ni? Why didn’t you answer my calls? Why?”  
  
She must be pissed, slurring the words together.  
  
“I was sleeping.” It’s not a lie, and Niall is grateful for it.  
  
“But I missed you there.  Let me in. I wanna see you,” she demands, sticking a hand in, pushing the door open.  
  
“You are drunk, Haz,” Niall says, holding the door still, blocking Harry’s way. It’s better than saying no.  
  
She is quiet for a few seconds, and Niall can imagine the shock of being rejected by him in a way. Cause he never does that. It’s because- because she’s Harry.  
  
“But, Niall, but- ”  
  
“Go to sleep, Harry,” Niall repeats, voice as stern as possible. The thing is- he’s losing the battle already, knows he won’t leave Harry in the hall. What if she falls asleep there, bangs her head in the process, or what if she vomits and chokes on it.  
  
He opens the door wide before he can think of doing so, earning an armful of the drunk brown haired girl.  
  
“I knew you would let me in eventually,” Harry says cheekily, taking off her Chelsea boots and heading to the sofa.  
  
“Of course,” Niall mutters, closing the door again, turning back to the room.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.” Of course she knew. That is exactly the problem. God, could he be more transparent? He’s heard of girls being able to read guys far too easily, but Harry’s ability to see through Niall is probably a whole new level of “easy”.  
  
Maybe if- if they weren’t a part of the most successful band ever, or if Harry hadn´t fucked half London and didn’t date half LA; or if Harry was a guy, maybe; or if they weren’t Niall and Harry at all– Niall would allow himself to think about the possibility of taking Harry out for a date down to the river side in West London, where it´s always so quiet compared to the center, buying them Mr. Whippy with a chocolate flake from the ice-cream van, and he would kiss her sweetly, tell her how lovely she is.  
  
However this Harry is not very lovely. She’s whiny and spoilt and a show off and vain and emotionally selfish. Doesn’t mean he can’t love her, does it.  
  
“You were ignoring me,” Harry says from where she’s sitting on the sofa that Niall had been sleeping on just a few minutes ago. One of her socks is black and the other one dark purple.  
  
“I was sleeping.”  
  
“No. I mean after _that_.”  
  
Niall doesn’t reply. Instead he starts fiddling with things on the desk, rearranging the luxury magazines and some of his toiletries there.  
  
“After we had sex.” The tone Harry says it in is accusing and mean, and when Niall looks over at her, she’s frowning, body tense. She still looks drunk as hell, because she doesn´t fucking even blink once.  
  
“I bloody know what you mean, Harry,” he snaps back. “And I didn’t ignore you. I just didn’t think that would be something you would want to talk about.”  
  
“So what? You thought you would fuck me, and that would be it?”  
  
Niall grimaces, because it can’t be further away from the truth. On the other side, he can’t tell her what the truth is.  
  
“‘Cause, like, it’s like I can still feel you inside.”  
  
It’s been a bloody week.  
  
“Jesus, don’t do that!” He says harshly to cover the despair that’s threatening to show up, walking closer to the sofa.

He wants to grab her and shake her.

Harry is looking at him intently, and Niall can´t read her face, which doesn´t happen very often. The black shirt she´s wearing is open wide, her pink bra poking out. Harry´s always showing her tits off. It´s an understatement when Niall says he´s glad that he and the other lads are immune against the sight of Harry´s cleavage by now.

“I can´t stop thinking about it.”

And Niall wants to laugh, because he´s the one who should be saying this.

“What?” he huffs out instead.

“Maybe I- I do sleep with people a lot, but it doesn´t- doesn´t mean, that it´s always good for me too.”

“What are you saying, Harry?” He´s growing seriously impatient. Harry talks slowly normally; and now that she´s drunk, she´tumbling over words and stretching out syllables in an unnecessary fashion.

She pins him with her gaze, barks out crossly:

“It means, Niall, that I don´t always have an orgasm.”

“Ouch,” Niall says spitefully, biting his lip right after.

The silence is stretching out, none of them speaking up again. Harry runs her fingers through the mess that is her hair is, making a hilarious face. She is drunk. But Niall feels drunker. Thoughts of her fucking with Louis in the early days, and messing with Zayn later, and hooking up with Nick Grimshaw on several occasions, and her “relationship” with Taylor Swift- which one of those were so bad or inconsiderate or too greedy to take a proper care of Harry? Niall can´t imagine, can´t stop thinking that he would fucking worship her if he could.

He can´t.

Blood pulsing in his temples, head swimming, he closes the distance between two of them.

“Take it off,” he says seriously, kneeling down between Harry´s knees, hands resting on the top of her thighs.  
  
She hesitates only a tiny bit, nimble fingers with those stupid rings going to the button on her jeans, opening it with only a little trouble.  
  
Niall’s there to help her pull the piece of clothing down her legs and then off, along with the non-matching socks.  
  
“G-god,” Harry breaths out shakily above him when Niall turns his head to bite at the softness of her inner thigh.  
  
According to Niall, that part of Harry’s glorious body has been strongly underappreciated.  
  
Now Harry’s thighs are trembling already, Niall making a way between them to accommodate his shoulders, giving the sensitive skin more bites and nibbles, not being as gentle as he could.  
  
He can smell the sweetness of her pussy, and isn’t surprised when Harry’s hand sneaks down in an obvious attempt to touch herself there through what looks like one of those seamless smooth knickers or whatever is that shit called.  
  
“Nuh-uh,” Niall murmurs, catching her wrist, and pulling it away.

He rubs his cheek close to _Brasil_ , stubble rasping, making her gasp and jerk away from the sensation.

She puts the hand on the top of his head instead, stroking through his hair. Not a better option. He shivers, ducking away in a pretense of finding a better position on the floor.  
  
“Let’s take that off too,” Niall nods to the knickers, once he’s settled on his knees, Harry reacting immediately, lifting her hips off the sofa eagerly and getting rid of her underwear. Her eyes are glued to Niall the whole time; wide, searching. She doesn’t look so confident anymore, a huge contrast to her normal self. Niall feels bloody smug about it.  
  
He doesn’t waste any time after that, putting his mouth to Harry’s pussy without a second glance, his dick fully hard but easy to ignore in such situation.  
  
Harry moans brokenly above him and bows her back slightly, which presses her cunt against Niall’s tongue even tighter. He doesn’t particularly love eating girls out, but he knows a few tricks here and there. Also, it’s very easy to read Harry’s movements and listen to the noises she makes, so he feels fairly confident.  
  
He is honestly to god scared to look at Harry, just like the first time, scared that if he catches her gazing at him, he might see a bit of what he’s felt for her for ages, and for some reason that is the most freaking thought. Because he doesn’t know how he could deal with Harry’s honest interest in him, and he would just fuck up everything anyway, or probably Harry would too, sooner or later.  
  
The moment Niall decides to use his fingers too, and slides his middle finger to join where his tongue has been; Harry lets out a long, filthy moan, going rigid for a few seconds. He doesn’t have to look up to know that she wants to say something, can practically hear her mouth opening and closing several times.

Niall knows this is far from what he could imagine being affectionate or intimate with Harry was. This is ugly, compared to how he would treat a girl he was in love with. He is still careful, he would never- you know, never hurt her, Jesus.  
  
He’s fucking her with two of his fingers, the other hand on her hip, when Harry starts moving against his thrusts, little tentative movements of her pelvis. Niall stills, deciding what to do next.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry breathes, somehow shakily. So Niall doesn´t move again. He holds still, flattens his tongue, waiting for Harry to take the hint because he can’t speak quite well now.  
  
She hisses out quietly twice, when her clit rubs hard against Niall’s tongue, then she starts moving her pelvis in circles and uncoordinated small jerks, and her breathing gets seriously heavy and hiccuppy, and all Niall can hear is her, and all he can feel is her unbelievable silkiness, and she’s hot and so, so wet. He blocks everything else, and imagines getting up to get his mouth on Harry´s perfect breasts, finally, sucking and biting on her nipples, massaging the fullness of them.  
  
She is overcome with pleasure, mouth open but no real sounds coming out. Niall wants to look away but he can’t anymore.

“God, god, you are so- “ _beautiful_ , he wants to say, “and I’m- I- ,” it makes the breath catch in Niall´s throat.

She blinks about like fifty times in a really short period of time, stretching one arm out as if to touch Niall before thinking better of it, and then withdrawing it back and putting her fingers to her mouth, biting on her middle finger as she comes.The sight burns him from inside out.  
  
They are both panting now, and it almost echoes in the quiet room. Niall´s leaning his forehead on Harry´s pointy hipbone- it´s not the most comfortable place- her whole body rising and falling with the deep breaths.

He feels like he should regret kissing her, or that he should sit next to her and make her talk about what has been going on between them. Let her blow him or maybe ride him to satisfy the most primary needs, ´cause he still has them, yeah. Tell her how he´s been feeling; about the hole in his chest that only she can fill, and how it grows in her absence.

When he looks up, Harry is asleep. So Niall gets on his legs, hissing at the steady throbbing in his painfully hard dick, his brain thinking only about getting off.

Fools in love think with their heart though, so he puts Harry´s legs on the sofa first, throwing a blanket on her without a second glance, and walking in the direction of his bed, he ignores Harry´s loud snoring. It always gets worse when she´s drunk.

He wanks off to what happened minutes ago, resolutely not focusing on any unnecessary feelings in that situation- like his own, for example- just purely, you know, the sex. His hand is moving so fast the muscles begin to ache faintly.

Sometimes all the thoughts- Harry thoughts- constantly swirling in his head make him literally sick. Sometimes he doesn´t want to fucking feel anything, to be able to press the switch off button. Sometimes he´s exhausted and cranky because of it, from the knowledge that the only option is to wait until it´s not there anymore, until it´s over. Sometimes he thinks someone should hurt him for real, actual physical pain, so he would stop whining so fucking much about this.  
  
He can feel it just before he starts coming, when his forehead is scrunching up, eyebrows drawing together- he knows he’s gonna cry.

The orgasm is almost too long, tugging at all his nerves, even those he didn´t know about, making him all shaky.

The hot tears are leaking from his closed eyes, more coming out when he opens them, wiping his dirty hand into the sheet.  
  
He throws an arm over his face, the non jizzy one- so Harry won’t see how fucked up he is. In case she wakes up, that is.  
  
A choked off sob comes out of him, startling him in the quiet room.

Fuck, he thinks. This is far from ok, far from when it used to be just a little crush on his band mate, far from when he realised he was in love with Harry but still managed to stay distant from it. Because he knows, he knows he´s just another one in line where people have been queuing for Harry Styles.


End file.
